“You mean the timepiece.”

“I do mean the timepiece.”

She could think of no other reason why this coffin maker was alive once more. If the device was not buried with him, it must be somewhere in this cemetery for it to have worked its magic as it did. Even after hearing the rumors, she hadn’t put much thought into its existence, its capabilities. Such a thing would be prized beyond measure; it was little wonder why Ainsworth wanted it.

“I don’t see how we’ll find it in the dark, Miss Daly.”

Catherine nodded. Yet her heart knocked against her ribs at the notion of returning to the print shop empty-handed.

Guy put his hands in his coat pockets, lowering his voice as he continued. “Perhaps, given time, he might remember something of it. I know someone with connections at the university. They may have information there about this timepiece.”

“Who? A student?”

“Ah, no, not a student.” Guy cast his eyes down. “He—he digs up bodies for the medical department.”

Catherine’s insides twisted. “A resurrectionist, then.”

Most people considered the practice horrific. At least Catherine and her sort left the bodies in their coffins. At least they provided a comfort to grieving families. Resurrectionists unearthed cadavers and sold them off to anatomists in need of bodies to dissect.

“He could help,” Guy said.

Catherine looked back toward the pinpoint of her lantern light. What she saw there—or rather, what she didn’t—froze the blood in her veins. She grabbed Guy by the sleeve.

“The boy,” she said. “Where’s the boy?”

Guy snapped his head around.

“Oh,” he said.

In the space between piles of grave dirt and Catherine’s lantern, where Owen had stood waiting, there was only empty air.

The boy was gone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CATHERINE NEVER SHOULD’VE let him out of her sight.

She made a dash for the grave, snatched her lantern, and held it high over her head. It was as good as casting light down a well—the darkness around them was unyielding, near tangible, and Owen could be anywhere among the trees and stone monuments.

“He can’t have gone far,” said Guy, coming up next to her. He surveyed the empty grave before turning his attention toward the front gates. In the gloom, the sharp-tipped finials were set in relief by the lamps lining the street. Catherine clutched her lantern tighter. She started down the path, peering between the rows of headstones.

Guy Nolan followed after her. “Poor fellow. He’s likely scared out of his wits.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

She headed for the cemetery’s entrance, drawing closer to the rattling of carriages, the muffled calls and laughter from the doorways of gin palaces.

Owen, as Guy surmised, hadn’t gone far at all. As they neared the front gates, Catherine found him standing to one side of the fence. His hands were curled around it, his forehead pressed to the iron. Guy moved forward and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The touch seemed to undo him in some way—he let out a shuddered breath, as if he might burst into tears. His voice was little more than a whisper as he said, “What am I supposed to do?” He turned, facing the two of them, yet he seemed to be looking elsewhere, his eyes far away. “Where am I to go?”